


all of the things you will never see again

by Anonymous



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, He's pretending to be Pre-Game Kokichi but he's not doing a very good job of it, M/M, Post-Game Oma Kokichi, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Pre-Game Saihara Shuichi, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You’re alone, Kokichi. And you always will be.Shuichi’s words echo in his mind. He peers up at this new yet old Saihara Shuichi, the ugly duckling, the runt of litter.I may be alone, but so were you, once. We’re the same now, you and I,he replies, far too late, words directed to someone who isn’t even alive yet to hear it.(Kokichi ends up in the body of his pre-game self, stuck with a very different Saihara Shuichi.)
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 114
Collections: Anonymous





	all of the things you will never see again

**Author's Note:**

> This is a couple of months old, I just discovered it in my docs and decided to clean it up a bit before posting. I’ve also realised I don’t really have any idea how to characterise Kokichi, but there’s nothing I can do to fix that.

Kokichi had staked his life on outwitting the killing game and in turn, the universe had gifted him a second chance - only, he’s not so sure that he's grateful for this turn of events. 

Sending him back was an interesting choice, because what could he do to prevent something on the scale of a company-backed, fan-loved reality show? He’s a glitch in the system that knows too much but can do very little. Kokichi signed himself up for those trials and when he peers in the mirror and witnesses the remains of this coward, he can barely understand it. 

He isn’t even sure what role he’s meant to play anymore. Is he meant to wait, nails cutting into his palms, lip chewed and bitten raw, filled with anxiety for the impending moment? Will he be dragged kicking and screaming into the repeat of the fifty-third season? Or will his body act on its own, following behind an eager Shuichi without his consent, trailing like a dog at his heels? 

Was the original him really so willing for such a fate, did Ouma Kokichi beg to be included in what would soon become the bane of existence? His memories are all messed up, faded and half-covered up by the stress of what he had gone through at the mastermind’s hands. He can’t ever remember such an interest in Danganronpa. There are no posters of the killing games on his bedroom’s bare walls or a plush toy of Monokuma on his bedside cabinet.

His current life is absent of any of Danganronpa’s influence, so how did he go tumbling into that path? At the end of the day, he’s not even sure such a simple change as a personality switch is enough to prevent his participation, considering the shady business practices of a company willing to condone murder. 

Although, he’s still not quite convinced any of this is even real. Is this really the past or just another lie dropped into a sea of non-truths? Kokichi has never had the optimism to believe in a life after death, not when he is sure whatever soul he had left was crushed into pieces. But he’s here all the same, stuck in what might have been his reality once upon a time, unsure how to avoid his impending doom when he can’t even see it speeding towards him.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the store front’s window as he walks towards his school and frowns, the expression hidden beneath the mess of hair that falls too far over his face. There’s a bruise shining proud over the curve of Kokichi’s malnourished face, poked and prodded by his own clumsy fingers, just another injury battered onto the canvas that is his sickly-shaded skin. 

Kokichi can almost see the blossoming of handprints peeking out from his uniform collar, but he blinks and the sight disappears. Another figment of his imagination, reminding him of the sins he’s yet to pay for and the people he left behind who don’t even miss him. At least his alienation now is not self-made.

A sigh escapes him involuntarily, as he turns on his heel, away from the mirror that reflects back a stranger in Kokichi’s shoes. Even the slightest shift of his lips sparks a deep soreness, so he guesses that he’s at least somewhat lucky that  _ this  _ Kokichi never talked that much anyway. 

It leaves him jittery, the lack of a need to lie and lie again and lie once more for good measure. Back then, lying had been his crutch, and while it certainly hadn’t kept him anywhere near sane, it was still the only thing left that felt safe, and now he has nothing left to fall back on for fear of letting his new mask slip.

The bruises hurt, like any rough touch will to his aching bones, but the beatings don’t affect him anymore. Watching Kaito’s face malform with malicious intent faintly brings back an uncomfortable feeling in his gut, but Kokichi has seen, experienced, lived through too much now to let petty, one-sided fights detract from his search for a purpose. 

His atonement has slipped from his grasp, the spot on his shoulders it once pushed so forcibly down on numb and barren. Hands curled into fists are inconsequential now. The only way his predators could get to him now is if they stuck him beneath a hydraulic press.

There’s the cuts too, accidental, blooming red hidden beneath the colourful band-aids wrapped around his fingers. Kokichi had never been the best at looking after himself, evidenced in the sharp edges of his bones peeking through his shirt and the dark circles etched beneath his tired eyes, and now, there’s no one left to watch his back. 

His home is empty, his organisation is nonexistent and his hands aren’t used to the base of a knife in his shaky grasp. Each and every time, he’d stare blankly at the kitchen counter, thinking of neon pink streaked on the edges of a blade. Now, he sticks to pre-made meals, ignoring the pity filled looks cast at the local orphan. 

He has made such a blatant mess of himself and it’s not even purposeful this time around, but Kokichi is too tired to play yet another role of the unwilling participant backed into a corner. Constant vigilance is a necessary requirement in this new game that Kokichi is still ignorant to the rules of, but he’s in desperate need of any motivation to hide his current state of mind. 

He must be the cowering wallflower who flinches at every loud noise, who has eyes permanently glossed over with unshed tears, but the slightly unhinged laughter never stops tearing up his throat, clawing shamelessly at the seam of his lips. Kokichi has grown so accustomed to the mask that killed him, and it’s about to be the cause of his downfall all over again, especially when he can’t hide the wince that comes when he sees Shuichi in his usual spot.

Kokichi had been sure he’d become attuned to every one of the detective’s quirks, had been sure he could read the other like an open book, but everything Kokichi thought he’d known has been destroyed. This Shuichi is unpredictable, an anomaly, holding himself with a quiet kind of unsettling confidence, slouched comfortably against the brick wall, ignoring the judging looks of passing students. 

He has his favourite, well-loved, Danganronpa limited edition game console clutched in his calloused palms. It’s roughed up from overuse, the paint job chipped and the screen cracked in several spots. Kokich can’t help but wonder every time he sees the broken thing about just how many times Shuichi must have played the tales of those initial killing games over and over again, desperate to be one amongst the crowd of blackeneds and victims. 

“Ouma-kun,” he greets, disinterested, voice flat, his gaze flashing up for what is meant to be a split second, likely ready to go back to another repeat of the execution he holds dearest to his heart. 

The Shuichi that had been Kokichi’s tether to sanity, until he trampled all over the heart he didn’t realise was as human as the rest of them, treasured his friendships above all else. This Shuichi, the one that Kokichi wants to distance himself from entirely but still feels obliged to watch out the corner of his eye, stands alone on the street corner, abhorring human contact, much more content listening solely to the sounds of bones breaking and blood gushing.

His conflicted thoughts must pass over his face despite his best efforts, because Shuichi’s stare remains fixed for just a minute too long, eyes trailing over him from the can of panta held in his fragile hands to the displeased curl of his mouth. “Saihara-san,” Kokichi murmurs back stiffly, still unused to the level of formality this version of himself, who he’s meant to be now, the spineless bastard he erased from existence, adheres to. 

The Ouma Kokichi before him had never felt pride at his attempts at tradition. Instead, he loathed himself for the habit built by years of guilt and fear and unhealthy solitude, drilled into his naive brain by parents who lost their lives at the bottom of a ditch. The  _ Momota-sama _ he once had to utter and swore to never again burns against the roof of his mouth.

Something is wrong with Kokichi’s tone, not that he even realises it at first. It’s too flat, lacking the quivering panic of a boy used to the world beating down on him relentlessly. Ouma Kokichi should be scared of absolutely everyone and everything, holding his arms above his head for protection instinctively, and yet here he is, unabashedly gazing at Shuichi with not a glimpse of discomfort. It sets something off inside the other boy and the next thing he knows, Shuichi has his wrist in a vice grip, tilting Kokichi’s body entirely off it’s unstable axis. 

Kokichi’s mind is suddenly empty and free of any meaningful thought as he stares up slack-jawed at the blank expression casted down at him. He’s not quite sure when Shuichi had gotten so tall, suddenly acutely aware of the inches between them, arm held high in the air by his wrist. Something flares up beneath his skin as he’s flattened against the wall, the phantom feeling of the snap of bone overwhelming as the leftover noise of heavy machinery pounds through his ears. 

Maybe it isn’t that Shuichi had transformed at all. It was just an illusion crafted by the detective’s sometimes meek demeanour outside of the courtroom and the manner in which he would always cave to Kokichi’s never-ending mockery. This Shuichi has no need to make himself less intimidating to a tiny victim who has never posed a threat to the classmates that tower over him.

Kokichi bites his tongue, although he desperately wishes to open his mouth and let the questions come pouring out. He doesn’t know why Shuichi is bothering to even touch him, not when everyone else flees from his fingertips as if his presence is nothing but repulsive. Everything Shuichi had touched had glittered like gold but lost its shine fast as they fell to Monokuma’s manipulation, while Kokichi’s words alone dragged others to their demise. 

There’s a war inside his muddled head, the part that lies and lies till it’s too much to bear and the part that’s honest in its tears and trauma both stuck at a crossroads. He may have been able to falsify a convincing enough act in front of those who are sure that Ouma Kokichi is nothing more than a weakling, but in front of Saihara Shuichi that all melts away. _ I hate you, _ Kokichi thinks.  _ I hate what you will become, because I put what little trust I had left in someone who could never trust me back. _

_ Saihara-chan, _ his mind calls out, the memory of someone who is yet to exist a fresh wound. For a split second, he can imagine that whatever creature stans before him is his beloved detective, with an anxiety-ridden look in his eyes but a voice that confidently reveals each of his deductions. 

But then Kokichi blinks and the fragmented beginnings of Shuichi is in his place instead, that small little shattered smirk crawling beneath Kokichi’s once ruined rib cage and nesting in his racing heart. Whoever the future Shuichi had once been, whoever the current Shuichi happens to be, haunts his every waking moment. 

Shuichi tilts his head to the side and then, for a moment, there’s an inquisitive look in eyes, a glimpse of who he’ll eventually become. This Shuichi is long done with being complacent with the normalities of life, is so fascinated by the blood and guts of a killing game because it’s so against the grain. Perhaps that is why he is so suddenly intrigued by the boy his class has always isolated, who once hid his trembling face behind overgrown hair but who now can’t stop staring up into hazy grey eyes. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Shuichi asks, gaze blank, eyes dead and cloudy. His gaze only ever lights up at the mention of Danganronpa and it’s a hard pill to swallow that Kokichi can’t even hate him for it. There’s a monster walking around wearing Shuichi’s skin and all Kokichi can do is stare shamelessly. 

“You look at me like someone else should be standing here,” Shuichi says dryly, his tone heavy with absolutely nothing. There’s no emotion there but boredom and yet, Kokichi peers into his monochrome eyes and sees a spark of something else, a pinch of interest, as if Kokichi is a worthy distraction. 

“Everyone does. They all want me to suddenly be different, but you look as if you’ve accepted the inevitable already.” Has he? Kokichi doesn’t know. Every time he blinks, visions of who everyone will eventually be burns behind his eyelids. He sees Kiibo with metal plating curving down his cheeks and Miu with goggles pushed high over her forehead and himself, a checkered scarf around his neck and blood pouring from the corner of his mouth. 

Then he comes back down to reality, tethered by Maki’s hand curled around his throat when she shoves him out of her path in the hallway. Kiibo is human once more and Kaede strides through the school with her once kind smile completely erased by apathy and Kokichi clings to the wall, avoiding any passing glances as he presses his palm against his mouth, hyper aware of his own hallucinations. 

But he has to have hope, doesn’t he? Hope that perhaps one day, without the influence of Team Danganronpa messing with their heads, that he’ll find himself back in front of the Shuichi he misses and not the desolate form the other is currently in. 

“Saihara-san.” The word is heavy on his tongue, fumbled, as he barely holds back the urge to call this imposter Shumai. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need to get to class, so I’d appreciate it if you could let me go.” Kokichi doesn’t stutter, never stumbles, for while he hesitates every second to not allow his tone to become mocking in the face of his newfound enemies, he has lost the want to pretend to be unable to hold a single conversation without faltering. 

“Don’t I scare you, Ouma-kun?” It’s such a ridiculous question but Kokichi can’t bring himself to laugh because Shucihi is right. Kokichi is terrified. Of course, everyone would be scared of the town freak who gets off on glorifying murder, but he’s not scared of Shuichi’s strange hobbies. Instead, his blood runs cold when he thinks of exactly what this Shuichi represents - a past that Kokichi couldn’t remember and yet can’t escape and the future he’s not even sure he can run away from. 

“Of course not.” Kokichi’s voice is dull even as he tries to force venom behind his denial. In turn, Shuichi just scoffs. How  _ funny. _ Turns out the fake could pick out his lies so easily when the real Shuichi couldn’t even begin to understand his truth. Well, technically it’s the other way around. They were all just unknowing actors in one big gory reality show and the Shuichi that was real to Kokichi is nothing more than a fictional fabrication created to entertain. 

“You’re still scared of me, but you seem so different.” Shuichi doesn’t explain, but he doesn’t need to. Kokichi can feel the emotions thrumming through every weak and feeble inch of him, all the feelings too wrong, too much for this rotten form. Volatile, like thunder and lightning and the storm rampaging through the calm. 

Kokichi may be an excellent liar and a solid actor, but he’s out of his depth, cast back into a time that somehow is even less friendly than a despair-filled school with death around every corner. Truth be told, Kokichi isn’t sure how to cope with such a mundane life anymore. 

He had gotten desensitised the first time around, grew used to the bile rising up his throat at the sight of a corpse that had despised him in life, became accustomed to the harsh stares and the never-ending accusations. But now he’s out of place, standing on a street corner that only exists faintly in the back of his memories, towered over by a Shuichi that isn’t really a Shuichi at all. 

Every sound that leaves Shuichi’s mouth sounds entirely wrong and Kokichi wishes he could press his hands down over his ears to block out the noise. The facade slips and he wrenches his hand from Shuichi’s surprisingly strong grip, wondering what the hell had to be done to him to make Shuichi so spineless just years from now. He sounds so tired, spitting subdued vitriol. “Just leave me alone, Shuichi. Don’t you have a killing game to get back to?”

Shuichi raises an eyebrow, something akin to a smile but too small to notice gracing his pale face. “You’ve become very interesting, Ouma-kun. Meeting my eyes, using my first name. Where did all of this confidence come from?” It’s as if Kokichi has set off the monster that craves explanations for the unknown above all else locked deep away in Shuichi’s chest, behind layers and layers of disinterest for all passersby. “You’re much more fun to observe like this.”

Kokichi swallows, unsure of how to proceed when he’s managed to grab the other’s attention like this. Even so, no matter what he says, he’ll never resist the urge to declare that it’s a lie. He’s messed with his own thoughts so much that he barely knows himself anymore. He doesn’t know where the ghost of the trembling coward he once was begins and where the attempt saviour he tried so desperately to become and the mastermind he almost made himself into ends. 

He looks up at this thing, this half-made prototype of the only person who could prevent him from being so numb, who feasts on Danganronpa’s bloody and yet almost saccharine sweet coating, and feels a surge of affection he hates himself for. It’s sick, sickening, that Kokichi is so undeniably drawn to someone so obsessed with the one thing Kokichi despises above all else, enough that he’d throw himself willingly into death’s waiting arms just to end it. 

_ I deserve this,  _ Kokichi thinks. He deserves being stuck with a broken imitation of the only one who had ever earned the title of trustworthy. Only this time around, the  _ trustworthy?  _ Kokichi had scrawled beneath Shuichi’s name has changed. The question mark stands out against the whiteboard far more. Kokichi had once been an enigma to the world that existed in a dome, but now Shuichi has taken his spot in a much more open space. 

“Won’t you come with me, Ouma-kun?” Shuichi looks down at him expectantly, a half-smile appearing so terribly wrong on his sunken features. And now, after everything, Kokichi can’t bring himself to say no, not when he can share an odd sense of comradery with this Shuichi, who understands the isolation that Kokichi knows too well. It’s stupid of him to get attached once more but part of him cannot deny the pull of this boy’s strange aura.

_ You’re alone, Kokichi. And you always will be.  _ Shuichi’s words echo in his mind. He peers up at this new yet old Saihara Shuichi, the ugly duckling, the runt of litter.  _ I may be alone, but so were you, once. We’re the same now, you and I,  _ he replies, far too late, words directed to someone who isn’t even alive yet to hear it. 


End file.
